You Are A Believer I Am Not
by thatisanicecoat
Summary: Documents missing scenes concerning Emily Fitch and Naomi Campbell. Naomi's POV.


First Kiss between Emily Fitch and Naomi Campbell

I am standing in front of a house in Fuckshire, Bristol, without the faintest idea of why I'm here. The rather disheveled home sits on the corner, across the street from a pub and battery shop. Yes, a whole shop full of batteries; any battery you could possibly desire. This is Ray-J's house, I guess; it's walls seem to thump outward with the bass of some techno song, it exhales a stale odour of sweat, alcohol, urine, sex. I see bodies silhouetted in the windows, dancing, laughing, macking. I take a step forward to the front stoop.

"For fuck's sake," I mumble, turning around again. I don't know why I was even invited. I'd gone to primary school with Ray-J and a text had come from him a few hours previous reading: _RAYJ MORE! _and then his address. Something about that appealed to me I'm guessing, at the time. Something about knowing no one, getting sloshed and losing myself for a few hours seemed fucking grand. I don't want to admit it to myself, but I'm scared for college in the Fall, that I'll feel loneliness with a greater depth. First school was good to be all pencils and hard work, but college is less education and more socialization. At least that's what Mum has said. So, here I am, ready to socialize, ready to tap into that unique keg of college drama and snogging and drugs and general slagginess. I open the door and step inside.

I'm knocked into at once, some thick-necked football player, red in the face, sweating. He leers at me. Disgusting. As I make my way through the masses of people, I search for some familiar faces. None. I know no one. Lived in bleeding Bristol for sixteen years and don't know a single fucking person. Pathetic. A glare in my peripheral vision leads me to the kitchen table, stacked high with cheap rums and vodkas. I battle through to the vodka bottle and resurface with at least six fingers worth in a plastic cup. I sip idly, standing near the wall. In a few moments, I realize that I hate it here. Rather, I hate myself here. I also realize that I'm a bit rosy-cheeked, and that I have to pee. Right, I'll go to the loo, then walk back home.

Struggling once more through the crowd, I make my way down the hall, opening random doors in effort that one may have a toilet behind it. Saw many bare arses, no toilets though. I venture upstairs and check the first door on the right and... success. I close the door behind me, pull my knickers down, lift my skirt, oh so ladylike, and sit on the pot. Once finished, I tidy myself, wash my hands, set the toilet-seat cover down and wrench open the window that sits on the adjacent wall. I sit down and light a cigarette. A wave of self-pity crashes upon me and I can only laugh as I begin to tear up. Just then, the door bursts open and I can only catch a violent shade of red hair that sweeps inside.

"Jesus Christ!" I exclaim, "Knock much?" The girl turns around and I'm absolutely fucking astounded to see that I recognize her. She's got a twin, I know that much. Went to middle school together.

"S-sorry," she stammers, once realizing that the loo was occupied. "You ain't indecent though, are you? Just smoking a fag." She laughs, carelessly, easily, then stumbles closer to me. She is visibly drunk. "Mind getting up a moment? I'm here for a purpose after all."

I get up and stand near the sink, not noticing that I am smiling.

"Turn around then, pervy aunt," she says cheekily.

"Right," I say and do so. I'm not directly facing the mirror, but it is in the fringes of my vision. I watch her reflection as she takes down her leggings, then abruptly avert my eyes. I feel sweat condense on my palms.

"Naomi Campbell, yeah?" she says. I nod, my back still turned.

"Emily Fitch. You're the twin right?" I reply. I hear her flush the toilet. I take a drag of my cigarette, tapping ash into the sink.

"Of Katie and company," she says, standing next to me now, rinsing her hands under the running tap. "Why is it that the only thing anybody ever knows about me is that I'm a twin? Bit pigeon-holing, eh?" She turns to look at me, drying her hands on a floral print towel.

"I suppose," I say, meeting her brown eyes with my blue. Her face is nice, that is, it's not bad to look at. I like the look of her. I remember the sisters in maths last year, how Katie would flirt with all the boys and roll her eyes at the teacher. I remember how Emily would sit silently, taking precarious notes, paying attention. I don't think I've ever heard her talk more than a sentence or two. And now... God, words seem to be spilling out of her. It's a nice change, I hear myself think.

"So, what you doing? Just having a kip in the loo?" she teased, leaning against the vanity.

"Not kipping, planning an escape," I say.

"Oh no, you're not having a good time?"

"Me and parties... don't get on together."

"Can I have a fag, perchance?" asks Emily, smiling widely once more. The kid's got dimples, a smile that actually reaches her eyes. She digs around in the cloth satchel that's slung over her shoulder and produces a half-smoked spliff. "Even exchange." I smile, offering my package of cigarettes to her. I watch as she puts two thin fingers inside and selects one. She hands me the spliff. I light her cigarette, then put the sticky paper to my lips, tasting something sweet on it. I wonder, strangely, if this is what she tastes like. And, suddenly, I am struck with the overwhelming desire to find out if that's true.

This is a bit of a shock. I swallow audibly, averting my eyes, swipe at the bleached blonde fringe at my brow. I have never really paid strict attention to my Hypothalmus; that is, I'm relatively unconcerned with sex. This, however, is desire as I have never felt. Strange. Curious, even. Emily is looking at me again with that equally as strange and curious glance. I pull another drag on the spliff, letting my vision blur, my mouth go dry, my thoughts head further into the gutter. I watch as Emily unconsciously moves more near to me, her face flushed, her lips pushed together in a straight line. I feel a warmth pooling in the pit of my stomach.

"Ah, drugs," I say to relieve some of the tension.

"Makes you do strange things..." Emily agrees, "Maybe they allow you to do what you really want to be doing, say what you really want to be saying".

"Or fuck all and facilitate poor decisions," I say, betraying how true Emily's words were to me. A thin veil curtains Emily's eyes; disappointment, dare I say it? "What do you want to be saying, Emily?" I salvage my last remaining dregs of courage. She steps closer yet and I can count the freckles on the bridge of her nose, can tell you each shade of brown in her eyes, can trace the line of her lips in sensuous detail. It is Emily who first closes the few inches between us: Out of character, I think, she has never been any sorts of forward. But then, I think, I have only exchanged half a dozen words with her, so the idea that I know Emily Fitch's character is actually quite ridiculous. And yet... what about that time in year six when she stood up for Mina when those kids were making fun of her for being mixed race. Or when she raised her hand in maths year eight and asked why we had to learn matrices, _calculators do it for us, Miss_. And it switches on in me like a light... that I've been watching Emily for years, closely, intently, half-awed, half-confused, half in love. And then I realize that this person is kissing me and I am kissing her back.


End file.
